The Glory Days
by AmazinglyMe
Summary: A collection of Newsies oneshots, featuring Jack, Racetrack, David, Kid Blink, Mush, Spot, Skittery, Les, Dutchy a nameless newsie, and a general piece. More to come.
1. The Glory Days: David

_A/N: A little piece about what happened to David. I was thinking the other day about how his dad told him that he was only a newsie for a little while - you know, until he could go back to school? I was thinking about what would happen then. And here it is. _

**The Golden Days**

He's not one of them anymore.

It isn't that he doesn't want to be, or that it's his imagination, though he wishes it was. He just isn't one of them anymore.

It started when his mother got worried about the hours he was keeping. Late nights spent out and about, or even just at the lodging house, had her worried that he was turning into some kind of renegade, a street urchin. It wasn't that she didn't like the newsies - she told him that, and he knew it was true. She'd had most of them over to dinner at least once, treated them like her own children when she ran into them in the street, and always bought a paper when she could afford one, whether she cared about the headline or not. But she was a very careful mother, and it worried her that her Davey was out at all hours.

So he'd gone to the boys, explained it to them, how his mother was being paranoid. And they'd grinned, laughed, given him a hard time about it, and let it go, and after that, he had a careful curfew. He loved his ma - didn't want to worry her. And that was all right.

But then it had happened.

He'd always known that eventually he'd be faced with it, but it came sooner than he'd thought it would, and caught him unprepared like a blow to the bread basket.

His father got him to go back to school. No more selling papes for him.

David liked school. It had **always** been something he liked. But Jack, Racetrack, Blink, and the rest didn't go to school. Most hadn't since they were little kids, probably as little as Les, or younger. And once he was going to school, and keeping such careful hours, he barely saw the guys anymore. The bottom line was - he wasn't a newsie anymore. That was alright at first: they came by for dinner, they ran into him "around town", a couple of them changed their selling spots to be able to say hi to "The Walking Mouth" after school. But time wore on, and so did he. Old friends were eventually reduced to acquaintances, people he said hello to if he passed them in the street, and gradually, that was all it was.

It wasn't a jarring thing, not something you woke up one day and just **knew**. It came gradually, a slow realization that things were different now then they had been. Not a jaw-dropping revelation: it was just that, after a while, he barely saw them anymore.

For a while once he'd realized that he made a point of going down to the lodging house on weekends, or whenever he had a spare moment really. But either it was to late or it would never have done any good. They welcomed him, asked him how he'd been, but it was awkward, stilted. Things weren't as they'd been. They couldn't discuss the day's headline, or what had happened at the selling office the other day. He just wasn't a newsie anymore.

Even though, on the surface, there was no difference in him - after all, he'd **been** a newsie - there was an inner circle, a bond of trust that boys shared when they were all fighting to make a living, to sell a pape. David wasn't one of those boys anymore.

Jack still came by for dinner, but he was the only one after a while. And he certainly didn't practically live at the place like he used to, not even for Sarah.

David went to a university eventually - he and his pop together managed to scrape enough money, and he got a good scholarship. When he came back on his first break, he went down to see the newsies.

They grinned, he was welcomed by those that were left. A couple had gotten "legit" jobs, gone out into the "real world" and found a place that was willing to keep them. A couple had just become bums. But the younger ones, Boots and the like, were still around, and still remembered Davey, "The Walking Mouth." They teased him about being "educated" and asked him what it was like. He told them, and they joked around, laughing and smiling. But after a while, there was nothing to keep him there, nothing to talk about, no one to talk to, no one to see. He was forced to admit what he'd lost was not something that could be regained.

Every once in a while, he still thinks about those days, the days when he was hawking the headline and living off of it. They're the Golden Days, the Glory Days, even though he's living better now. He's got a job, a good one, and a nice little place to live, and the quality of his life's better. But it doesn't matter: those will always be the halcyon days, the good times, no matter what happens. If he turns out to be a millionaire, a president, or even a newspaper editor as he once told "the boys" he would be, there won't be a time to match **that** time. Ever.

_A/N: Kinda depressing? (shrug) What can I say? Well, it's my first Newsies piece anyway. I was thinking about putting up a couple other one shots here, not all about David, and not all written about this time, just some other one shots about some other newsies. Tell me what you think: about this piece, and about that idea._


	2. That's Just How It Is

_A/N: So yeah, please read and tell me what you thought! J_

**That's Just How It Works**

When I was a kid, I was in the streets. That was just how it'd been, since I could remember, since before I could remember really. I was in a fight one day, with some Brooklyn guys, and I was loosing. I knew it too, so I was putting what I had left behind my punches and hoping the beating I got'd be a light one once I was down. Then, from pretty much nowhere far as I could tell, there's this guy standing behind the two guys that're whaling on me, and suddenly, they're not whaling on me anymore. Instead, they're getting whaled on. I helped, and boy that felt good.

That kid, the one that helped me, his names Racetrack. At least, that's what everybody calls him. I asked a newsie once what his real name was. Just once. I didn't make **that** mistake again.

Anyway, so Racetrack brought me to the newsie's lodging house and he and some of the guys taught me to sell a pape. That's how I live now. That's how we all live.

Now for me, being a newsie was an improvement over the way things used to be. I mean, there were beds, a roof, and some sinks - it was like the Waldorf or something if you asked me. But I remember once when we got a new kid from a real nice family.

He was a runaway - his parents didn't do anything to him but he had aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and cousins galore, and quite a few of them didn't like him so much. So he came to the lodging house, and after two days he was shocked.

Like, when a couple of the boys came in after dark beat up but good. We knew they'd run into someone - clearly someone unfriendly - and we cleaned 'em up, and made fun of them (only a little) and let 'em go to bed. But the new kid, he's standing there with his mouth open and he goes, "What happened?". So we told him, because of course it's a pretty normal thing. But he just stands there looking like the sun just rose at night or something. "Well shouldn't we _tell_ somebody?" he asks, and now he's looking all worried.

At first I swear I thought he was joking. I mean, the fact that he thought we should tell someone when a couple of newsies came in a little ragged was laughable to the rest of us. More so, the fact that he thought someone would care. But slowly I realized he meant it. Cowboy realized it too, and he just kind of shook his head.

"Nah. It happens all the time."

It was little things like that.

I took it upon myself to teach him to sell papers. Someone had to. And we went past a couple of little kids on our route one day, snoozing underneath a pile of old newspapers and other trash. And this guy turns to me and says, "Shouldn't they be at home?"

Well I'd learned - we'd all learned - by then that when this guy asked these questions he wasn't joking, he was serious. So I explained it to him, patiently as I could. These kids **were** home. And he just stared at them. I practically had to drag him away.

It was little things like that. That and a million other little things. Like how we got our breakfast from the nuns every day, or how we "stretched the truth" selling the day's headline, or Race's cigars.

It was little things like that.

He got used to it eventually of course. Everybody always did. Pretty soon he could fight with the best of us, "exaggerate" a headline better than some, was an expert at begging an extra roll from the nuns, and stole Race's cigars along with everybody else. And the next time we had a new kid, he very patiently took him along his paper route and taught him the way things were.

We haven't had a new kid from a nice family in a long time. But every once in a while I think back on that and remember that this life we've got isn't normal for everybody. That the things we do every day, constantly, all the time, you know, the things that are just routine, aren't what everybody does. I dunno.

But that's enough deep thought for one day I think. I'm gonna go play cards with some of the guys.

_A/N: Well, let me know what you thought of it! _


	3. The What Ifs: Jack

_A/N: Er, excuse if this author's note appears twice, as something odd is going on with my computer. Anway, all I really wanted to say is: I know it's short (blush), and...It's about Jack! Yay!_

**  
The What Ifs **

He still wonders sometimes. He knows that he made the right choice. That he couldn't have the friends and "family" he has here if he'd chosen to leave. He knows that, and he wouldn't give up what he has for anything.

But every once in a while, something inside him twinges. Usually when he hears horses, or sees his old hat. He never threw that hat away, though after a while he couldn't wear it anymore. It was a little to much, to much of a reminder.

Whenever those twinges make themselves known, they also make him furious. He shouldn't be second-guessing what he's done. If there's one thing he knows, it's that second-guessing can get you in trouble. He's been in innumerable situations where, if he'd second-guessed himself, he wouldn't be around afterwards. But he can't stop himself from rethinking this choice, from playing that pivotal moment over and over again in his head, the moment when he agreed that it wasn't time for him to leave just yet.

He imagines being a "real cowboy" as Les once uttered in such an enthralled tone. In Santa Fe, where he just knows the sky would be more open, the horizon wouldn't quite disappear. He imagines riding horses that actually belonged to him. He imagines Santa Fe…

Most of the time when he thinks these things he's able to brush them away to the back of his mind, where they're allowed to sit in among the cobwebs and the dusty old dreams. But once in a while this particular dream drifts to the forefront of his mind and it takes considerable shooing to make it leave.

He shakes himself out of his Santa Fe moods, usually by putting the energy spent wondering into selling papers, or picking himself a fight. Sarah doesn't approve of that, he can tell, but she also seems to understand, though he's never told her about his twinges. He's afraid of…well, hurting her feelings.

Occasionally, he'll find himself staring at his old hat, something of a dusty relic now, a memory personified in the form of a cowboy hat.

That hat contains within itself years of dreams, hopes, and prayers about a city he'd never been to, a place he'd never seen. Dreams that endured through tough times and even the strike, that he's attempted to put away. He **has** put them away, they're firmly stowed in a corner - except for every once in a while, when he just can't seem to help it.

He knows that these twinges will fade with time, and with this new "family" concept. That'll take some getting used to. Though it seems a lifetime, it's really only been a few months - five at most.

This is his life now, and he loves it. He loves trying out the idea of brothers, parents…and a "respectable" girlfriend. These things are what make him up now, and they are slowly filling him to the brim. They just haven't filled him quite up yet, and so the spots that aren't filled are still stubbornly full of dreams of wide open spaces and glorious sunrises that fill the sky and still have room to stretch.

Those spots will fade in time, replaced by a family of his own perhaps. Replaced by Christmases with the Jacobs' family, and a fair deal selling his papes.

Those spots will fade and fill, diminishing from brief sharp pains to sore spots to scabs, a gradually diminishing twinge. And he knows that.

For now, he'll put up with it. Sometimes, he almost doesn't mind them, these reminders of how things used to be, because after all, it gives him a chance to see that not everything's changed, and that some things are so much better.

But he's not exactly an optimist, and he doesn't usually even try to put a "good spin" on it. He just lets the twinges come, and he lets them go, in and out.

He still wonders sometimes. But most of the time, it's okay.

_A/N: As always, please read and review. Thanks! _


	4. Nah, Bum Odds: Race

**A/N: Oh, I _love_ Racetrack. A lot. So this is about him. I'm thinking about doing more about him. Please read and review.**

**Nah, Bum Odds**

From the time Racetrack was three years old, he was a gamble. When he was three, he got a case of influenza and it went nearly untreated, except by a midwife whom his dad happened to be friends with. When he pulled through it, barely the worse for wear, his dad told him (his dad took bets at the horse races) that the whole time he was sick it'd been "bum odds." Ever since then, though his dad took off for a "night on the town" with his friends and didn't come back when he was ten, that had stuck with him. Once he hung around at the races for a while and learned the language of gambling, he figured out what his dad had been saying. He'd been a gamble, a longshot. He was proud of that, it was something to show around. "Nah, I almost didn't make it. Bum odds, ya know? But here I am." When he needed to impress someone at the racetrack, that was what he did. It showed that he knew the lingo, and that he was a fighter.

Once he was a newsie, he didn't need it so much. After all, there, it didn't matter who you were, as long as you sold papes. But Race still kept it in the back of his mind, a little thing to remember, be proud of, pull out when you needed a good story. And he remembered it for a while he was in the streets, not in the lodging house. He remembered it after particularly bad beatings, and he remembered it while he forced himself to learn to soak people who messed with him and his friends. He wasn't much of a fighter, not really. But he was sarcastic, a smart-aleck, and that came out in how he fought. He didn't throw stellar punches like Blink, and he wasn't a born fighter, like Jack or some of the others. But he was smart, and he knew when to duck, and when to weave, and when to throw in one of his uppercuts. And, almost more importantly, when to toss out a well calculated insult that would leave his opponent livid, and hopefully, distracted.

That was what he used when he was on the ground, down, out. When he was bleeding, or cold, or exhausted. He was a longshot. A born gambler, a risk from the start. That was what brought him back to the racetrack too. That was in his blood.

In The Refuge, in the street, in the lodging house, it didn't matter where, when it was "difficult" (that was pretty much code for "I'm beaten, I'm broken, I might as well be dead, but hey, here I am") he remembered it, what he was, the thing that'd happened.

"Nah, bum odds."

**A/N: A bit short I know. I might do another one about Race. I LOVE THAT GUY. (erm, okay then... done now...) **

**I have a question actually. I was thinking about doing a oneshot for this group about the newsies, saying that they're "only memories." You know, the strike and stuff. That it's become sort of a tall tale, a legend. But then I remembered that I'd read something like that in the X-Men movie fandom. At least, I think I did. Beautifully written by the way. So, does anyone think this is true, or did anyone write this? I don't want to plagiarize, but I really want to write that oneshot. **

**Other than that, please read and review. :D **


	5. Golden Legends

_A/N: Alright, I decided to do it. If anyone in the X-Men fandom has written something like this, please know I meant no offense. Thanks. _

_Full Story Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. At all. Bye._

**Legends**

They had faded so quickly, becoming ghosts of a glorious past. It hadn't been that long since the strike, but newsies, well, they could be said to have short memories. They had to have short memories, the quick ability to forget things. Some many of them had painful things in their pasts, that they had to be able to concentrate solely on the present.

So they had been rapidly forgotten. They were stories now.

Racetrack, Crutchy, Skittery, Pie Eater, Snoddy, Kid Blink, Mush...All had joined the ranks of newsie legend, a tale to be told around the lodging house at night. They were like heroes, part of New York lore. A glorious story, full of adventure and down and out moments, a story newsies threw around to prove that they were New York's toughest breed.

Spot's story was told by the Brooklynites, the boy who went on from being a newsie to bigger, better things, though almost no one still around knew what had really happened to Spot after he'd left. It didn't matter - the point was the story after all.

But more than anyone else, two names, two faces, had faded the most into the stories, into blurred faces and faintly recalled notions. Awe inspiring ideas, but perhaps only just ideas. Ironic that the key figures were the ones that had grown not just into memories, but into legends.

Jack Kelly and David Jacobs.

They were called "Cowboy" and "The Walking Mouth" by those who were a bit older and could claim to have perhaps met them once, or had a brother, friend, or friend's friend, meet them. They were the stories told most often, and the ones that got wilder and wilder each time they were told. Details were forgotten and replaced by more "exciting" ideas, family histories, motivations, and personalities were altered. But one thing remained the same - they were heroes.

Their stories were told with awe and respect, their names demanded grateful tones. Whenever there was a new newsie, he was told the same story, and it always started the same way - with Jack and David's first meeting. From there, the high points were hit. The initial strike, the visit to Spot, the article in the paper. Perhaps in these stories Pulitzer trembled in fear when he heard his newsies were on strike, perhaps Spot was awed but uncertain about the offer from "The Walking Mouth" perhaps the newsies got a full two-page story in the pape. And the police raid during the rally and Medda's concert was often the most exciting part of all, with several police being "taken down" before the newsies were captured and led off.

Jack's desertion was really just a scheme, to ensure that he knew what Pulitzer was up to in these stories. Because this figure of legend could do no wrong, he was flawless, he wouldn't be a scab - not _really_. The spirit of some of the events was lost, but never the essence.

Always, the newsies were the underdogs, always, they fought against impossible odds (some stories made the odds more impossible than others).

Only one thing never changed, and that was the fact that if it weren't for these people, no one would get a fair deal for their papes. That was repeated, branded into the minds and hearts of every New York newsie.

They were altered, they were changed, but they were never forgotten.

They were heroes.

_A/N: So please let me know what you thought of it! Thanks._


	6. You Don't Change What Works: Blink

_A/N: Kid Blink's oneshot. I aplogize. I know I haven't updated in a while, so here it is. Hope you like it - please tell me what you thought of it! _

**Why Change What Works?**

Nobody knew why he had the eye patch, because he never told. They all thought it was some terrible secret that he couldn't talk about, or at least the scar of an enormous and vicious battle, which he'd barely escaped from. In truth, he didn't tell for an entirely different reason.

It had been a perfectly mundane occurrence as these things went - one man with a knife against an 11 year old kid with nothing. Blink'd gotten off 'cause the bulls had taken his assailant away - though not before he'd been slashed across the eye. So he'd high tailed it while he could, and later cut out a crude eye patch because he knew he looked awful. End of story.

But why tell anybody that?

Everybody needed a reputation, a gimmick, something besides being able to sell papes. This was his. He let the stories circulate about ten to one fights and factory accidents, vicious cats, rats, mice, dogs, and even horses. Some people speculated that he'd been born disfigured, others even thought perhaps he merely wore the patch for effect (and they were, he supposed, closest to the truth).

He hadn't even had to feed the flames. Gossip and imagination were more than enough. All he did was never tell. He never told how he'd come to have an eye patch, and then the rumors flew.

Les figured he had been a pirate when he was a kid, and begged for tales of adventure on the high seas, and Blink obliged, grinning. Spot was one of the ones who figured he just wore it for effect, because it was something he himself might do. No one knew what the key around Spot's neck unlocked - Blink suspected that he'd just found it and wore it for effect. But who knew? Race liked to joke that _he'd_ put that eye patch on Blink, especially when there were new newsies around, to give them all a good scare, and Blink went along with the story, nodding solemnly and wincing when people touched the area near his eye patch for effect. It was Jack that wove the tall tales about the horse - apparently Blink had been shoeing it and gotten too near the feet.

Everyone had a different story about it, everyone wanted to know. And whenever they asked, he wouldn't tell them, and it only made the stories get better and better.

Race had his gambling, Jack had his rope tricks, and he had his eye patch. That was how it was, that was how it worked.

Mush sometimes guessed, Blink suspected, about the real reason for that eye patch. But if he did, he didn't say anything, and he certainly told just as many tall tales over card games as the rest of them did concerning that eye patch - orphanages, rabid dogs, sewer rats, and gang bosses - Mush's were some of the best.

Race had his gambling, Jack had his rope tricks, and he had his eye patch. That was how it was, that was how it worked. And he didn't mind. In fact, he got a kick out of it. It was fun, watching people try to come up with the answer to the puzzle and knowing that only he knew they were having a colossal joke played on them. He loved practical jokes, and this was the biggest one. He carried if off with style.

Sometimes he'd consider telling everyone, just to see the look on their faces. Taking off the eye patch to show them an eye that had healed considerably since its encounter with a knife, in fact, one that hardly showed signs of scarring anymore. Just to watch them adopt stunned looks and then slowly start to laugh. But in the end he always decided to keep it.

After all, it worked for him. And if there was one thing you learned as a newsie, it was that you didn't change what worked.


	7. Parakeets: Mush

_A/N: Alright, I set out to write a full fledged newsie story and instead I wrote about Mush and parakeets. What can I say? Anyway, here it is. I've got **no idea** where it came from. Seriously. _

"We should get a pet." I say, as I splash cold water onto my face.

It's the first thing I say that morning. We're all washing our faces and shaving and goofing off (well, mostly goofing off) and the words come tumbling right out of my mouth.

"Say _what_?" Race asks, turning to me in disbelief. I shrug.

"Ain't you ever wanted a pet? Like a cat, or a dog, or a...parakeet or something?" I ask, not knowing where I'm going with this.

"A _parakeet_?" Skittery says from the other side of me, his voice incredulous.

"Hey everybody!" Shouts Blink. "Mush wants to get a parakeet!"

The morning dissolves into the usual hilarity and ridicule, with my comment long forgotten in the discussion, which veers off into the strange realms of parakeets we've all collectively had (total count: none), and from there to other birds, and from there to everybody's favorite Vaudeville performer, the Swedish meadowlark, because everybody loves talking about Medda.

Parakeets (and other pets, which had been the real point of my comment) are long forgotten by the time we are out the door to collect our days papes. But for some reason they are on my mind all day.

As I hawk my papes through the streets of New York, the cold, gray drizzle dripping off the brim of my hat and down onto the tip of my nose, I think about getting a pet.

I mean, something like a dog. They're supposed to be man's best friend, right? Right. So wouldn't it be kinda fun to have a dog? It could watch out for you while you were selling papes, or stay at the lodging house and greet you when you came back from a hard day of selling. I've heard dogs love you no matter what you do. That'd be kinda nice, if ya ask me.

Or a cat. Cats can fend for themselves -- you don't have to do anything. They catch mice, or rats, or shrews and drink water from wherever. There are plenty of stray cats around the lodging house. It'd be real easy to just get to know one and bring it inside. Give it some milk when you could afford it and suddenly it's your best friend (or so I've heard, but then, I hear a lot).

Pets are still on my mind when I return to the lodging house that night. I sit down on my bunk (it's a lower one), a thoughtful look on my face. Why _couldn't_ we get a pet? There isn't anything in the rules that I've heard to stop us.

"Seriously Blink," I say, turning to him, "why couldn't we get ourselves a dog or somethin'?"

"Why?" Blink asks incredulously, raising an eyebrow at me. "You still thinkin' about dat? Ya serious?"

"Sure." I say. "Why not?"

"Cuz we already keep your for a pet, and if we got a dog, it'd smell better den you and we'd hafta kick ya out!" Race called from the bunk above me, spewing cigar smoke down towards my face. I'm so used to it I don't even flinch. Laughter roars through the lodging house.

"Aw c'mon Race." I say. "Ain't you ever wanted a pet?"

Race pauses for a moment, and though I can't see him I can hear the cogs in his head turning to come up with a new insult. That's why it surprises me when he comes out with something that sounds like it might be genuinely thoughtful -- or at the very least a bit less sarcastic than usual.

"I dunno Mush." He says. "Not really. I always thought it'd be one more thing to worry about. Why bother right? Don't we got enough to do already?"

I shrugged. Race had a point.

"How come ya want one Mush? How come ya want a pet?" Snipeshooter asks from his bunk, only one over from mine. I realize that's a pretty good question -- why would a newsie want a pet? We worry about ourselves and our friends. I don't need a pet for companionship -- we're a tighter knit group than lots of families I've seen. I don't need it to protect me -- I can fight just fine in a pinch, and there's usually another newsie within shouting distance anyway. I don't need it for entertainment -- that's what theater (and pranks) are for. Why in the world do I want a pet?

"I dunno Snipes." I tell him honestly. "I mean, I was just thinkin' about it, and I figured it might be nice, ya know?"

"Nah." Snipes replies, shrugging. "I don't."

People laugh, me included, and we all go back to whatever it was we were doing before (i.e., nothing).

(line)

In the dark if you know it well enough you can see the intricate designs in the wood of the slats above you. They hold up the mattress of the upper bunk, and the swirls and knots in the wood are a godsend to an insomniac newsie. We've all got things that keep us awake sometimes, but this time my problem isn't my usual one.

I don't know why in the world I want a pet.

Even if I got a cat or something, eventually I'd forget to give it milk, or I wouldn't be able to afford it, or it would run off, or I'd get bored. Sounds kinda hardhearted I guess, but really we're all worried about things like eating, and general survival. We don't have time to worry about cats.

Late that night, the stars beginning to fade outside the window and the early predawn light emerging from wherever it hides, I think I get it.

Wouldn't it be nice to have something lower than me?

Something like a pet?

Every day all day we get looked down on. We depend on everybody else - Pulitzer for our papes and our jobs, our customers for our money, Kloppman for a roof over our heads. Sure, we use our street smarts and our fists to stay alive, but if it weren't for other people in some capacity, let's face it -- we'd be dead.

Every newsie likes to think he's completely independent, and every newsie is wrong.

It'd be real nice to have something depend on me for a change. For food and shelter. Just to know I was takin' care of something for a change.

You know, when you lay it out like that, it sounds pretty dopey doesn't it?

So I roll over and go back to sleep. Tomorrow morning, a couple of the boys may bring it up to laugh about (hey fellas, maybe we oughta get Mush a parakeet for his birthday!) and occasionally we may remember it and get a good laugh over it. But I don't really want a pet anymore.

It's really years and years later, when I'm in my early twenties and most of us have moved on to "respectable" jobs, or at least real ones, when most of us have little tiny apartments to call our own that I'll be reminded of all this again. The boys will be over at my house to celebrate my birthday. I don't know when my birthday is, so we all just picked a day. Race suggested April 1st. Hardy har har.

Anyway, I was opening the couple of presents they'd scraped together for me (it was real nice of them actually) and when I'd thrown the wrapping paper off of the last one, someone held up a hand.

"Hang on a sec Mush, just a sec."

So I hang on, wondering what in the world they're going to do. Probably bring in a bucket of cold water and throw it in my face -- that was the "extra present" last birthday.

"Close your eyes!" Forewarns a voice from the doorway, and I obligingly do (well, okay, they're open a little -- would you close your eyes around this bunch?).

I feel something set down on the floor in front of me. I open my eyes and look down to see a dull looking cage. It has a few scratches and dents, but it is undoubtedly a birdcage.

Inside is a scrawny, but breathing, parakeet.

Laughter roars around the room and they all congratulate each other with slaps on the back and extra drinks. I laugh too, remembering that cold winter day when I'd idly inquired about pets.

Joke though it is, I will keep the parakeet.

_A/N: Please tell me what you thought. I'm not sure if it's up to the others (well, it's a little more jokey, but I mean the writing). Constructive criticism would be much appreciated. _


	8. Spot Conlon Says They're All Wrong

_A/N: A few ramblings about Spot that I did my best to form into a oneshot. I had a lot more trouble with this one then the last one, because I find Spot really hard to write. So feedback loved and appreciated. :) _

* * *

Some people say it's lonely at the top. 

Spot Conlon says sure, that's true. But it's just as lonely at the bottom.

Spot Conlon says that when you're a flunky, just a newsie, you don't have any real friends: you just think you do. They're cheap, they're easily bribed, they're fickle, and they'll run at the first sign of danger. Sure, when you're at the top, you don't have any real friends either. But you can keep the ones you pretend to have with promises of power or money, and threats of worse if they don't stick around. When you're at the bottom, there's no guarantees. At the top bribery and threats will get you nearly anywhere.

Some people say it's a long fall when you've reached the top.

Spot says sure, that's probably true. But he wouldn't know - it's never going to happen to him. Falls from power happen to stupid, careless leaders who don't know what they're doing. They happen to the crazy, the foolish, the imperfect. They happen to leaders who make mistakes, and bad decisions. They happen to idiots.

Some people say everybody makes mistakes. Spot says sure, that's true. But he isn't everybody. He is the exception to everybody. He is Spot Conlon, Brooklyn newsie, and he doesn't make mistakes. Mistakes are for "everybody" - not for him.

_Nobody_ ever has the guts to say Spot Conlon's full of lies, Spot Conlon's fooling himself, Spot Conlon makes mistakes all the time. But Spot knows it's true.

He is human after all.

His expertise lies in making people forget just how human he is. He appears and says he doesn't believe in mistakes, in loneliness, and whether people know it or not they become convinced that he's some kind of robot, or a deity, the perfect ruler of invincible Brooklyn. The true King of New York, and Brooklyn in particular. The person who turned his boys into a tremendously powerful and terrifying fighting force. The boy who can do anything.

He blinds people to the truth, carefully covering up the obvious with the oblivious, which he brings forth with graceful ease to the forefront of everything.

In other words, one of the best liars this side of the Atlantic.

Spot Conlon is lonely, and Spot Conlon is afraid of falling, and _Spot Conlon makes mistakes_ (he just covers them up really well).

Since the age of 9 people have been persuaded by him to forget his humanity (and most of the time his age) and follow him into anything.

There are thousands of little things he does, from carrying his cane, to his slightly exaggerated accent, to his expertly unflappable fighting style. The way he phrases things, and the slight smirk he puts on when necessary for "business affairs." All of it is arranged, and though it soon becomes habit, easier to slip into than his (by now a size to small) shoes.

He may be human, but there is one human characteristic he does not share with many - he isn't stupid. Or at least, so he tells himself. And for the most part, it's true. He's nobody's fool. That gives him the advantage - that and being such a cynic. So he carefully guards what he says and does with a flawless mask of emotionless, biting sarcasm, and an air of being above it all, and it turns him into the supernatural.

Some people say Spot Conlon must have a weakness.

**But Spot Conlon says they're all wrong.**

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**_A/N: Please let me know what you thought of it, and thanks for reading. :) _**  
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	9. Glum and Dumb: Skittery

_ A/N: Please, **please** tell me Skittery was the name of the one who complained about the papes. You know, in the restaurant when Race goes, "you been in a bad mood all day"? He was that one, right? Please let me be right. I'm not that good with all these extra characters and their names. Anyway, that is certainly the character I am talking about in this piece. Wow, that was long and fairly pointless. Okay, please, read away. :)  
_

_

* * *

"So you get your picture in the pape, so what?" _

Of course, Skittery knew what getting in the papes meant.

It meant fame, and glory. It meant attention, focused on you for at least a day. It might mean support for your cause, it at least meant people heard about you. Getting your picture in a pape was not just helpful, it was most kids' dream. Fame, fortune and glory.

Skittery used to want his picture in the paper.

Back when he was younger, and he watched his mom struggle to get her writing published, he'd heard her go on and on about what a great thing publicity was. About how it could elevate you from a nobody to the next big thing. He'd dreamed about getting in the paper. Front page, special edition. Big news.

Then, he became a newsie.

He hawked the headline every day in the streets of New York City. In the rain, in the sun, in the snow, sleet, and hail. He shouted himself hoarse for a penny a pape. Every morning, he watched Weasel plop a stack of papers down in front of him with a heavy thud. Every morning he picked up the dead weight and hefted it onto his shoulder where it settled into the groove between his neck and his shoulder and rested until he was sore as anything.

By midday his shoulder would be aching and his hands would be stained with newsprint. He'd have the headline more than memorized, he would know every little detail of every single page of the stupid paper.

And by the time he got back to the lodging house at night he was so sick and tired of newspapers he would have given anything to never have to look at one again.

The next morning, it would start all over.

He knew some newsies who welcomed the familiarity of the papers. Some who loved knowing the feel of a paper, who loved hawking a headline. He knew newsies (Jack for one, and Race was another) who practiced their craft like an art, perfecting it. Who could practically tell whether the headline was good just be picking up a pape. And they loved that. But Skittery didn't.

Skittery was tired of papes.

He wasn't tired of being a newsie. He had real friends, a livelihood (if not a "career"). He had card games and cigars and coffee. He had a bunk, and a roof over his head. He wasn't tired of being a newsie. He was just tired of the papes.

If only selling newspapers didn't involve, well, newspapers.

He was tired of the large letters on the top that read "The World." He was tired of the date that was printed in the corner. He was tired of the smell of newspapers. The feel of them, hot off the press, greasy with ink. He was tired of their size, and their weight. Tired of the sound of his own, hoarse voice, hawking the headline, day after day.

Skittery was tired of papes.

He **hated** papes.

Papes reminded him of his ma, who had never gotten the publicity she wanted in those stupid papes. They reminded him of getting soaked by the Delanceys over a crummy headline. They reminded him of the disgusting taste of ink and page when he'd been selling in a windstorm and had one of his own papers blown into his mouth. They reminded him of little humiliations long past, and of present hardships. Papes were everything Skittery wanted to escape.

So seeing himself on the front page, immortalized forever in black and white for the whole city to see, he was disgusted. He glared at that paper, and resentment boiled up inside him, and he said it.

"So you get your picture in the pape, so what?"

He was shouted down immediately, as he'd known he would be, but he didn't care. He had been going to say something. And how stupid would it sound, he wondered, to say, "I hate papes"? They all relied on those papes for a living.

Yet another thing he despised about them.

They were the key to his survival -- the key to food and warmth and a roof over his head. The headline determined his profits, no matter what Cowboy said. And the papes were fickle -- great one day and terrible the next, as if passing arbitrary judgment for past transgressions, long forgotten by Skittery himself.

When he was a grown man, he grudgingly bought papes, because he remembered what it was like to be standing there in the cold, yelling out the headline until you couldn't yell anymore and glaring at everyone who went by and decided they didn't need a paper. But Skittery never read the pape. He gave it to the next person he saw, eager to dispose of the inky feeling and the familiar weight in his hands. Once he escaped from the merciless paper and ink creations, he never wanted to see them again.

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_A/N: I just thought to myself: if I were a newsie, I'd be tired of newspapers. I don't know that I'd want to see myself in one. And...this happened. A bit short perhaps, but I discovered I could only write so much about hating papers, as I feel no particular animosity towards them myself. :P Please, tell me what you thought! _  



	10. Heroes: Les

_A/N: It's...Les, yay:P Please let me know what you think. _

* * *

They were his heroes. 

Other boys admired firefighters, or doctors, or policemen. And sure, firefighters and doctors were alright, but they had nothing on his heroes. As for policemen, they were the dreaded "bulls", out for newsie blood and working for whoever ran the Refuge at the moment.

His heroes swore and spit. They could fight and run. They drank and smoke. His heroes were the exact opposite of everyone he'd ever known, including his dad, uncles, and cousins.

At first it had started out as awed fascination. He'd watched Cowboy beat the Delanceys and climb that huge gate in complete admiration, wishing he could be like that. They replaced his fairytales. No need for noble knights when you could have a noble newsie, and in his dreams they played the parts of everything from pirates to Arabian knights, to soldiers.

After the initial awe started to wear off it was the thought of an act of rebellion that kept him coming. He was young, and he was small. He couldn't do much. He didn't really have his own life – his parents made his decisions, which most of the time he didn't mind. But after seeing that some people had their own, independent lives, he wanted to have one act of rebellion, no matter how small. Talking and selling with the newsies was an act of rebellion on the simple grounds that his father wouldn't approve of either the language or the "attitude" of these boys.

Not that Papa didn't like the boys as a general rule. But the entire atmosphere of the lodging house would have had a frown of imminent disapproval firmly on his face within seconds.

So for a while, they were Les' heroes because they were helping him break the spirit of his father's law, though he obeyed the letter.

Then, he realized he was good at it.

He could move tons of papes a day, with nothing but a little cough and a shy smile. People ruffled his hair and cooed over him, sometimes buying more than one paper. He glowed with the praise he received from the others. He had always been the smallest in his class, awful at sports and while he was not stupid he had never been the brightest in his class. Overshadowed by David's brilliance and his friends' athletic prowess, here was something he was finally good at. Here was something he knew back to front, something his classmates sat in complete ignorance of, something David only did because he had to (at least at first). Here was something he, Les Jacobs, was really good at.

For a long, long time, that was what kept him coming back, that was why they were his heroes. They accepted him, they gave him the chance to do the thing he was good at. Les Jacobs was not a scrawny nobody with them, he was someone who'd found a talent.

Then for a time they were his heroes because he became one of them. They were his comrades, he joined their ranks as a fellow newsie, the elite of the New York's streets. They were the best of the best, dependable. He felt a fierce pride as Cowboy pointed out that they held the city together. They brought the news. Without them, how would the citizens of New York stay informed? They were as crucial as any fireman, or doctor. And he was one of them, a crucial member of a workforce.

But eventually, they were his heroes because he saw what they did every day.

At the end of the day, comrade or no, he went back to a home. It was small, but it was a home. It was two parents and two older siblings. It was food on the table and a warm bed. It was safety and security, it was reliability. They had none of that. They were his heroes because he understood what they did. He understood that firemen and doctors had it easy compared to a simple newsie, struggling to eke an existence out of paper and the sympathy of a hopefully news hungry populace.

He adopted a swagger, and he spit occasionally. His language became what could be considered perhaps more flavorful. He learned to throw punches. Of course, his mother and father knew almost nothing of this. Sarah, he always knew, suspected, and David faithfully kept his secret because he felt slightly guilty, as though he was to blame for this change in Les.

If only he could understand that there was no blame, no guilt. Les did not swagger and spit and swear because he admired those traits in the newsies, not exactly. Of course, he did admire those traits. But the point was not the coarseness of their lifestyles, the point was how they pulled through it, and kept on pulling.

In that particular respect they were just as admirable as any doctor, or any fireman. And he was proud to name them, all through his childhood and well into his teens, as his heroes.

Even as a grown man he would see a newsie on the street and smile. He would buy a paper, and he would look back on the boy, usually at least ten years younger and a foot shorter than him, and admire him, because he was a hero.

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_A/N: Alright, so what did you guys think? To sentimental? It did occur to me, so constructive crit. much appreciated. Also, if anyone's got another newsie they'd like me to do/want to suggest? if it's one of those minor characters that all seem to have names, maybe you could tell me which one it is, because i'm no good with those. anyway, thanks for reading and reviews are much appreciated. :) _  



	11. SPELLING, Dutchy

_A/N: Finally. I'm posting something! Eeeeh! (this is me being excited. :P) Thanks very, very much to Arlene2 who suggested Dutchy to me...and then told me who he was. Trust me, I wouldn't have known otherwise. ;) _

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S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G B-E-E. 

Spelling bee. He had heard the words countless times from his father's mouth. His woefully proud father. Woefully proud of his eldest son, the genius of the family. Countless hopes rode on that eldest son. That eldest son wasn't Dutchy -- it was Tom. Tom the genius.

When Dutchy was younger he was stupid enough to be jealous of Tom. At the age of three he watched in envy as Tom spelled his way to victory in a dimly lit, dingy little room in front of twelve tired looking people. Parents mostly. Working parents that had dragged themselves, sore though they were, into that ugly little room to listen to their children spell words like "discretion" and "elegance." They weren't words that belonged in the mouths of those spelling them. Words like "factory" and "penny a pape" belonged in the mouths of those who watched longingly as their children grasped at a life better than theirs, a life were those words -- "discretion", "elegance" -- were useful and accurate. And a three year old Dutchy watched admiringly as Tom won that spelling bee by correctly spelling "gracious."

His parents glowed with pride and put the slightly tattered blue ribbon that Tom's teacher had scrounged up the money to buy up on the wall. It hung there proudly, its blue brightening the small room, a constant reminder that this family had hope thanks to their "genius" son.

Father was constantly, tersely reminding Tom that he could "really be something" and that he would "really help the family." Dutchy listened in awe because helping the family sounded important, and waited impatiently for his turn to come to "be something." When he grew a bit older he would sneak into Tom's room and opened up the second-hand dictionary that Tom had received on his eighth birthday. He opened its worn cover with reverence and would pick the first word he saw, be it aardvark or zealous. Then he'd learn it. He'd stare at the word, and repeat the letters to himself over and over until he could close his eyes and recite, sing-song fashion, exactly how to spell that word. It didn't matter if he knew what it meant, all that mattered was that he could spell it. That much was clear from Tom's nervous face as he stood up in front of the smattering of an audience and haltingly recited the letters that made up those long, important words.

It was funny in that wry way, Dutchy would later realize, that though he could spell, he couldn't read. He just knew how to spell the words – didn't know what they meant.

As Dutchy got older still, as he reached the age of six and then seven, he began to understand that he wouldn't, for a million dollars, swap places with Tom. Tom who always went about looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, Tom who was constantly muttering how to spell "conscientious" or "testimony" under his breath. Tom who began to spend less and less time at home because home was a constant reminder of all the expectations that were bundled up in being able to spell "expectations." Dutchy watched as Tom flung himself into fights and into selling papes, and finally just stopped coming home.

His parents raised a fuss for a few weeks, rushing around frantically, trying to make the police care that a twelve year old working class kid – and a newsie to boot – was missing. Dutchy holed himself up in Tom's room and studied that dictionary for hours on end. M-I-S-S-I-N-G – but Dutchy knew Tom wasn't really missing. He still V-I-S-I-T-E-D him sometimes, down at the lodging house. It was there that he got his first introduction to selling P-A-P-E-R-S. When his parents stopped B-O-T-H-E-R-I-N-G to look for Tom, Dutchy left too, going down to the lodging house for longer and longer periods of time until finally he just lived there. Tom left – or maybe his body lay in some back alley 'til the bulls carted it away – but being a newsie stuck in Dutchy's blood. And, for some reason, so did all those words.

Useless words. Words that spoke of an education and an opportunity that newsies didn't have. But Dutchy remembered them anyway. The dictionary fell apart and Dutchy threw it away in a fit of rage, rage that the last pages of his old life had simply fallen apart and rage that he hadn't thrown them away sooner. The pages scattered into the Brooklyn River and unobtrusively drifted away with the rest of the muck and trash, just some soggy unimportant papers.

A few years later Dutchy sat with a piece of paper in front of him, staring at the blank white expanse, trying to remember the last time he'd had to spell something. And yet it returned to him immediately. Strike. S-T-R-I-K-E. Strike.

"So, did I spell it right Kloppman?" He asked idly, knowing the answer before it came.

"Very good, very good."

When Dutchy had been learning those words, so long ago, in his brother's dimly lit room, petrified at the thought that, at any moment, someone might wander in and discover him where he didn't belong, snooping through his brother's things, he hadn't understood why he was doing it. He didn't really understand what a spelling bee was, or why it was so important. He just knew it was, and so he dutifully, almost compulsively, memorized the spellings of every word he came across in that beat up little book. And once he became a newsie he hadn't needed the skill anymore.

It was years later, at a sort of newsies gathering at the race track (Race, as usual, had money on a horse, Mush was trying to convince him that he had bet on the loser, Kid Blink was insisting that they were both idiots) that David had cast him a glance.

"Hey Dutchy," he'd said curiously, "you know how to spell?"

"A little." Dutchy replied, trying to speak quietly. He'd never advertised it -- why bother? "Why?"

It was his spelling that got him the job at David's paper, writing up the news briefs, spelling that had finally brought him his own piece of security. He bought a dictionary because it was just what reporters did. It wasn't until he got it back to his office that he realized it was only a later edition of the old, worn one that he had once slowly but steadily learned to spell from in the first place.

Now that was I-R-O-N-Y for you.

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_A/N: I have been very busy lately and am about to become very busy again. Basically, I knew that if I didn't get this out now, it might be eons before I pulled it off. So I may post a different version of it later, but until then, please let me know what you thought of this one! _

_ Thanks, as always, for reading.  
_


	12. Nobody Will Ever Carry Him Anywhere

_A/N: Update. Have to go, as someone else wants to use the computer. Please let me know what you thought! _

* * *

No one was ever going to carry him anywhere.

He would grit his teeth and clench his fists and walk wherever it was he wanted to go, because no one was ever going to carry him anywhere.

He'd been a newsie since he could remember. Walking the streets in the rain or in the shine -- you got used to it. And he could still remember the first time he had seen someone being carried away.

The day had been a humid one. His feet pounded in their awkward rhythm along the streets as he called out the day's headlines. His hair flopped down, limp, over his face, his hat was soaked through with sweat. His leg had been aching slightly, and he'd stopped to take a quick rest. People grimly trudged to their destinations, ladies trying to fend off the heat with parasols.

"Mayor Unable to Leave His House!" He called out halfheartedly. The real headline read "Mayor Regrettably Cannot Attend Firemen's Ball." He still hadn't mastered the art of "tweaking the headline." No one was buying. They hurriedly passed him by, averting their eyes as though it was dirty to even look at anyone lower than themselves on the social ladder, or maybe at someone with a crutch.

He had been about to move on, find a better selling spot, or at least some shade, when one of the doors across the street had opened.

The fine wooden door opened and a man walked out. His coat was black and his eyes were dark. He was carrying something that Crutchy couldn't quite make out. A parcel of some sort perhaps? It seemed to be wrapped in a sheet. Something was poking out through the end of the sheet, something brown that glinted slightly as the sun reflected off of it.

Crutchy's eyes widened, and he felt his stomach rebel violently against his sudden realization.

Hair. Hair was poking out of one end of the sheet. And that meant that the hair was attached.

Attached to a body.

Crutchy fought back the urge to retch, or maybe cry. He clenched his fists so hard that his raggedy, unkempt nails dug into his palms.

The man heaved the parcel -- the body -- into the back of his hansom and climbed into the front himself, chirruping to the horses. They reluctantly started into motion, moving at a sort of half-trot in deference to the heat. Crutchy pulled in a few deep breaths through his nose, fighting hysteria, or panic, or revulsion.

He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the spot the hansom had vacated, at the house the man had come out of, but when he finally shook himself out of his stupor he knew one thing.

No one would ever carry him anywhere.

Being carried meant you had given up. It meant you were done. Through. It meant you didn't have the will to fight the world any more. It meant you just wanted to lie down and stop caring.

The day someone had to scoop him into their arms and haul him away, that would be the day his eyes closed and his body went limp. He wasn't going to let anyone try to help him get anywhere, crippled or not. That was just one step closer to a final fall. A final breath.

And someday he would have a real newsie funeral (back alley, probably with the body conspicuous only by absence) and they'd say a few words, about how he was a good pal, and an okay seller, how he was always up for some fun razzing the Delanceys anyway.

And then the boys would exchange glances, and stare into space for a second, and maybe there'd be a couple tears. And then someone would speak up, with their thick New York accent to say the final words.

"Nobody ever carried him anywhere."

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_A/N: Again, please let me know what you thought. Thanks for waiting through the update-drought. I actually have another one all written up. :) So you'll probably see that soon. _


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